CHAPTER EIGHT
- Bitter Brews & Prickly Potions -
Fi couldn't help but stare as the students began to flood the Great Hall.
She hadn't been around so many people, let alone children, in a number of decades. Certainly she had been to Diagon Alley and London and various other cities, but in those situations she and those around her had always been strangers, fated to cross paths but to never interact or to remember one another. Here, she was not an unknown. She was a professor, and those filling up the four tables below the dais would be her students.
Taking a settling breath, Fi held herself still. Crushing responsibility, here I come.
She wore her best robes, a black pair trimmed with green to add weight to her supposed alignment with Slytherin house, and on Fi's head rested one of those delightful wide-brimmed hats with a matching sash, a gift from Grigor that had arrived by owl that morning. Fi hoped to be able to repay the vampire some of the funds he'd loaned her over the years with her school earnings. She touched the hat's brim with a fond smile.
When Fi had taken her seat that evening, she had been joined by Quirrell—and at the last second she found an excuse to rise, and to switch spots as the Potions Master had stepped onto the dais. Snape narrowed his eyes but didn't mention the move, instead taking his seat with his usual efficient grace and flick of his robes. Fi congratulated herself on her ruse and for, once again, earning Snape's menacing regard.
They hadn't had an opportunity to exchange much more than the occasional nod or word of greeting when crossing in the halls or at the dining table. Truly, Fi and the others had been far too busy preparing for the term to gab about, but she felt the others had warmed to her somewhat, or were at least more familiar with her. Snape still looked unyieldingly stiff whenever he clapped eyes on Fi. Many a witch would be insulted, but Fi was curious, and maybe a touch anxious, to know what the Potions Master saw. She wanted to be above suspicion after all.
McGonagall looked up with surprise when Fi took Snape's typical seat. "Good evening, Minerva."
"Good evening, Delphinia. Are you prepared for classes to begin?"
"Oh, yes. I'm quite excited, actually." Fi grinned and straightened in her chair, feet scuffing the floor. She was rather short. Many of the seventh years she saw picking accustomed spots on the benches were taller than her.
The students filled the tables, wearing black robes relieved with spots of red or blue or green or yellow. Fi looked over them and felt a number of curious gazes turn her way as well. They all seemed terribly young to her, fresh-faced and bright-eyed—adorable and rascally children, every last one of them, even the scowling ones sitting at the Slytherin tables, or those too-tall seventh years almost ready to take their place in the adult world. Many wizards past their majority were still children to Fi; even Professor Snape was young, though he wore about himself a palpable cloak of maturity, some life experience that had aged him more than his physical years.
She had the urge to pinch chubby baby cheeks. I will not tell Ever. I will never hear the end of it. I told her I would be a right menace.
McGonagall rose and Fi glanced at her. "The first years should be arriving."
The woman marched off, nodding to those students who greeted her. Fi glanced by Minerva's empty spot toward Dumbledore, who sat in his larger chair with one hand on his goblet, fingers tapping the stem. Flitwick left the table to retrieve a stool and an old, ratty hat, which he placed in front of the professors on the dais before returning to his seat. Fi stared at the hat, puzzled.
Dumbledore leaned ever so slightly in his chair to address her. "It is the Sorting Hat, Fi."
"Sorting Hat?"
"Yes. You will see in a moment."
McGonagall returned soon enough and the chatter dimmed as a line of a twitchy eleven year-olds was led toward the head of the hall. Fi knew which had been Muggle-born and which had not based on their glances about the Hall. Oh to be sure Hogwarts was a grand place, but the Muggle-borns were bowled over while the wizarding children were a bit more sedate, interested in the grander spells instead of the levitated candles or other such simple things.
Reaching the dais, McGonagall picked up a sheaf of parchment resting by the hat. "When I call your name, please step forward to be Sorted. Abbott, Hannah!"
Fi watched as a stumbling blonde girl with pigtails rushed forward, almost tripping on her hem in her haste. She sat on the stool and Minerva lowered the hat on her head—and not a moment later the hat shouted "HUFFLEPUFF!"
Ahh, I see, Fi thought as the Hufflepuff table clapped and little Hannah went to join them. Some type of Legilimens spells, though I would say something a bit older has been funneled into that tattered old thing. For the charm to remain after so many years, I would say the hat is tied to the life of every student it touches, taking little sips of their magic to fuel itself until the next year. Clever.
Fi noticed Snape was rather tense, though the man's expression was as coldly passive as ever. She had no base of behavior to compare this mood against, so she simply directed her attention elsewhere and watched the Sorting.
At length, the name "Potter, Harry!" was called, and whispers ran through the Hall as one of the boys separated from the crowd and came forward. He was a little thing, awkward with a shock of black hair and poorly mended glasses perched on his nose. Fi had done herself a favor and read up a bit on Harry Potter that morning, not that she put much stock in what she assumed were puffed up accounts—but she could see the famed scar now, arching like a bolt of frazzled lightning from the left side of his hairline to piece part of his brow. Fi thought he looked rather like a pot that had been dropped and cracked.
Poor dear.
Mr. Potter sat on the stool under the expectant eyes of the Hall while the Hat muttered and wiggled about in thought. "GRYFFINDOR!"
Those at the Gryffindor table erupted in applause and hoots of exaltation. Fi bit back a sigh at the fanfare being showered upon one student. She wondered if it would go straight to his head. For all she knew, Mr. Potter had spent his childhood pampered and totted about on the shoulders of his relatives. Maybe he liked being The Boy Who Lived.
The Sorting concluded itself soon afterward, and Flitwick took the Hat away while McGonagall came to sit beside Fi again. Dumbledore rose—as did a gilded lectern, which the wizard stepped before, raising a hand to silence the babbling Hall. "Good evening, students. It is my great pleasure to welcome some of you back, and to welcome some of you here for the first time. Before the Feast commences, I have a few announcements to give. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you spells are forbidden in the corridors between classes, and has posted an extensive list of banned objects visible for viewing outside his office. The Forbidden Forest is off limits for all students—." He directed a stern look toward the Gryffindor table. "—as is the third floor corridor, to any person who does not want to die a horrible death."
Well isn't that just the warmest welcome, Fi thought with a wry frown. Why, by Morgana's foot, was I not told about the third floor corridor? I could have blundered my way in there. Bloody portraits probably would have led me there on purpose.
"I would like to make another announcement concerning the return of Professor Quirrell from his sabbatical abroad, though he will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year instead of Muggle Studies."
A polite applause ensued.
"Let us also welcome a new member to our staff, Professor Dullahan, who will be teaching Magical Theory."
Blinking, Fi smiled in silent recognition. More polite applause followed, a some mild whispering as the students undoubtedly wondered what kind of professor she would be. Fi hadn't known Quirrell had been teaching here before. When they'd spoken, the man made it sound as if his situation at Hogwarts was new. Had he stretched the truth in a bid to show some kind of faulty empathy for Fi?
The Feast commenced with Dumbledore giving a bit of showmanship for the students' benefits. Fi thought him to be a blatant actor, theatrical and, at times, cunning. Albus was an accomplished wizard who liked to pretend he was in his dotage. Sometimes Fi wasn't utterly convinced he wasn't, because the man said the barmiest things.
Fi set about eating her meal. Minerva was rather proud about something, grinning in that small, secretive way of hers. "I knew he'd be a Gryffindor," she whispered to Dumbledore. "He'll be just as brilliant and brave as Lily and James. He looks just like his father."
Reaching for her pumpkin juice, Fi tempered the urge to roll her eyes, because she knew wizarding society often compared children to their parents. Blood was paramount, incredibly so. Surnames were an indication of character, an indication of allegiance, a way for others to suddenly remember your great-great-grandfather once embarrassed their fifth cousin at a summer party a hundred years ago. Arranged marriages were common. The importance of family could not be underestimated.
For the first time in a long time, Fi thought of her own mother. She sipped her juice—and promptly cringed.
"Merlin's pants—what is that?!" she choked, almost tipping the goblet over in her haste to set it down. Tears welled in her eyes as fire raced down her throat and the foulest of tastes filled her mouth. The other professors looked at her with some alarm. "What is that?!"
It was Snape of all people who snatched the goblet up and looked at the contents. His lip curled into a sneer as he did so. "You are sitting in what is customarily my seat, Dullahan. The house elves have seen fit to give you my potion."
"Oh sweet Morgana on the bloody boats of Avalon," Fi breathed as she bent at the waist and rested her head on the table's edge. Her shoulders heaved and she thanked the fates she didn't vomit at the head table. "I'm dying."
"You are not dying."
"But the taste—." Fi choked, wheezing, and Minerva gave her back an uncertain pat. "Like licking the backside of a dragon."
"It will pass."
"I'm dying—."
Snape grew irritated with Fi's melodrama and switched their goblets. Fi wasn't sure she could stomach anything else after the absolute vile potion, but she took a helpful mouthful of pumpkin juice. She knew it had been meant for her because of how sweet it was. The house elves really do notice everything, don't they?
The Potions Master lifted a brow—and then downed the whole of his potion without so much as a flicker of disgust. Fi was sweating and her hearted galloped, yet Snape appeared wholly unmoved.
Now that's just showing off.
Fi drank the whole of her pumpkin juice and waited for a refill, dousing the acidic burn curling inside her stomach as the others returned to their meals. Several of the students at the long tables noticed Professor Dullahan's odd fit, but they thought little of it. After all, every year at Hogwarts was filled with peculiarities, the least of which being an odd witch at the dais sputtering over her food.
Fi meant to turn in early that evening so she would wake refreshed for her first bout of classes in the morning. She laid down on her divan, inhaling deeply, shut her eyes—and simply could not sleep. No matter how she tried to calm her mind, it continued to hum like a hive of furious pixies, and the muscles of her legs practically begged for Fi to rise and pace. She did so, much to the irritation of Puck and Ever.
"Will you knock that off?" Ever complained. "You've more energy than a herd of hippogriphs."
"I'm not sure what's wrong. Perhaps I am nervous?" Fi considered sitting down and attempting to cast a calming Charm, but decided against, as it was more likely than not she would fail to concentrate long enough to bring the proper magic to bear. "Maybe I should go pace the grounds?"
Ever huffed.
Fi continued to bounce to and fro in her office until a knock sounded upon her door and she pounced upon the desired distraction, thinking it was the Headmaster again. She was surprised to come face to face with the persnickety Potions Master, whose eyes flickered over the room much like Dumbledore's had, the scowl on his face showing he was not impressed with what he saw.
When Fi did little more than stare at the man, he spoke. "Professor Dullahan," he drawled, reaching into the interior of his black robes to retrieve a slender flask of purple liquid. "The Headmaster told me I would find you here, rather than your quarters."
"My neighbor gives me the creeps," Fi blurted out before she could stop herself. She swore in her thoughts, frustrated.
"Indeed." If Snape thought her declaration strange, he showed no indication of it. He proffered the flask with an indolent flick of his wrist. "You will not be able to sleep after imbibing the potion at the Feast. Your reaction proved you to be rather…sensitive to the potion's effects."
"What was in that goblet?" she asked, though Fi had her suspicions. She had created more potions than a slew of Potions Masters over the years and was intimately familiar with most. The subject of modern potions had the greatest crossover with the old magics Fi practiced.
"Livening Libation."
"Ah," Fi replied, thoughts clicking into place. "I remember now. You are on patrol tonight. It makes sense you would need something to stay awake." Though, Fi wondered why the house elves in the kitchens had seen fit to serve it to the man, as if he took the potion as a regular dose. Curious.
Snape said nothing, only held out the potion in his hand with a touch more irritation. "Take this, Dullahan, I do not have all night."
Irked by the waspishness of his tone, Fi did as told and turned the flask over in her hand, observing how the moonlight shone through the glass and highlighted the texture of the purple liquid. "Dreamless Sleep."
Surprise flitted through his black eyes for the barest of instances, then vanished. "May this serve as warning to not usurp my seat in the future."
Fi couldn't help but smirk at Snape's venomous tone. "You are quite the prickly sort, aren't you?"
A muscle in his jaw jerked.
"Perhaps you should have drunk the juice the elves gave me. I prefer it with an excess of sugar, you see. Perhaps it would have sweetened you up a bit."
Snape looked positively murderous and unsure what he should say in reply, a slight flush rising in his otherwise pallid face. Fi had seen wizards like him before; brimming with anger and fury and bitterness, wrapping himself in all that wrath to hide the truth of himself from the world. Fi had little care for the truth of him. He had yet to insult her, but it was a near thing, a dance upon the knife's edge, and Fi imagined Severus Snape would not like to see what happened if he goaded true ire from the hedge witch. She was not there to soothe the feathers of the prideful young man, but she would enjoy provoking him every so often, not unlike poking a livid bruise just to see what it felt like.
"Thank you, Professor Snape," she said, watching as he silently seethed. Fi jostled the potion. "This was kind of you. I will see the flask cleaned and returned tomorrow."
She shut the door then, before Snape could formulate a response, and she heard him storm away with a quick snap of his heels turning on the stone floor. Chuckling, Fi returned to her divan and sank onto it, uncapping the Potion for Dreamless Sleep.
"You know better than to provoke a man capable of poisoning your food, Delphinia," Ever chided from the shelf.
"If he is capable of finding a poison I have not built an immunity to, he is welcome to try." Fi poured a dab of potion onto her index finger, testing the consistency before smelling and tasting the draught. It tasted as she remembered it should.
"Don't be a catalyst for your prospective murderer to get creative."
Fi downed the liquid and laid back, setting the empty flask on the floor by her shoes. "If Severus Snape murders me, I will come back to haunt him, I promise."
Ever sighed, and Fi dropped into a blank slumber.
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